


Lay your bones bare AU ending

by Multi_FandomWeirdo16



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Choking, Crudeness, Other, PTSD John, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Triggers, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-26 19:53:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18723838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Multi_FandomWeirdo16/pseuds/Multi_FandomWeirdo16
Summary: This is an AU ending for Deadeyeboy's lay your bones bare.What if Arthur had stopped before he took it too far?





	Lay your bones bare AU ending

**Author's Note:**

  * For [deadeyeboy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadeyeboy/gifts).
  * Inspired by [lay your bones bare](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17806889) by [deadeyeboy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadeyeboy/pseuds/deadeyeboy). 



John could feel the panic rising in his chest making his breaths strained. His heart was beating so fast he felt like he was having a heart attack, but honestly? That sounded like a better idea than whatever it was Arthur had in store for him. 

 

It was so stupid. This had all started because he’d decided it would be a grand idea to provoke an already drunk Arthur, but he hadn’t meant to. He just wanted advice from him. He’d wanted to know how Arthur felt he’d done. Dutch, Hosea, they coddled him. They praised him over the littlest things and that was grand and all but Arthur was the only one who ever seemed to be bluntly honest with him. He let him know if he really did a good job, if he needed to work on something or if he just plain fucked up. It was nice to not be treated like a child.

 

He’d asked Arthur how he thought he did on the job, but apparently, he was not in the mood to give advice. It ended up in an argument which turned into Arthur grabbing John by the shirt and rearing his hand back, ready to knock his lights out before Dutch had come over and difused the situation before it went too far. He’d tried to explain that he hadn’t meant to start a fight with the older man, Dutch seemed to understand but it didn’t change the fact that, once again, he’d managed to piss Arthur off. Dutch had told him to give him space, and so he did.

The fact that both men had been drinking definitely did not help the situation, though Arthur had drank much more than him. Later that night, he’d run into the angry drunk again, unfortunately, there was no Dutch to help him now. 

 

He had drunkenly stumbled off to relieve himself, going a little farther out of camp than intended and due to the blood rushing in his ears and his own loud, clumsy steps, he didn’t hear the second set of footsteps trailing him.

He’d found a suitable tree and had undone the buttons on his pants, taking a little longer than it should have before relieving himself with a groan. He presses his forehead against the smooth bark and feels a little sick. He regretted drinking as much as he had and made a mental note to not overdo it like this next time, if he can even stomach the smell of it that is. 

For a few minutes he just stands there, feeling sorry for himself and mindlessly fiddling with his cock. He squeezes it briefly, wondering; the sensation is oddly muted, distant from the rest of him. It still feels nice to tug a little at the silky skin, though he thinks it’s the texture of it that’s pleasing more than anything.

“Havin’ fun?”

John squeaks and stuffs himself away so fast that it hurts, spinning around and groping for the gun at his hip. It’s Arthur. John swallows, audibly enough that Arthur snorts at him even in the state he’s in. The bottle of booze in his hand is empty.

“You ever hear of privacy, Morgan?” he says, voice steadier than he feels. He didn’t mean to sound as snappy as he did, it was just a reflex. Plus he was drunk so he was trying to sound more coherent than he was.

Arthur raises his eyebrows and scoffs, lifting his hands in mock affront. “S’cuse me, your highness,” he slurs. “Didn’t realize you was too high and mighty to piss near the likes of me.”

“Arthur,” John tried, regret hinting in his voice “You know that’s not what I meant.”

“Maybe I don’t know much of anything anymore.” Arthur takes one listing step forward, then another. John doesn’t realize he’s backing away until his back hits the tree. For some reason, that makes his temper flare. He bares his teeth like a cornered animal. His fingers twitch at his holster, even though he knows he’d rather eat his own bullet than ever raise a gun to Arthur. “What’s your problem?” He doesn’t realize it, either because he was too intoxicated to recognize the feeling, or because it was off to be feeling this with Arthur, but he was  _ terrified _ . The look on Arthur’s face and the way his body towered over his was extremely unsettling and made him feel more nauseated than he already was.

“I ain’t got a problem.” The grin on Arthur’s face is the meanest thing John’s ever seen. “I think it’s you who got a problem.” He tosses the bottle away as he closes in. John does his best not to cower, but it’s difficult when Arthur is getting right in his face like he is now. His breath is horrid, sharp as kerosene as it washes over John’s face.

“Back off, Arthur,” John snarls, raising his hands to shove him away, but Arthur beats him to it. He seizes the lapels of John’s coat and slams him back against the tree. The breath rushes out of John’s lungs.

“Little John,” Arthur drawls, drawing out the i. He’s so close that John can feel each puff of air against his lips. “You know, I helped raise you too, boy. Least you could do is show me a little respect.” His voice is such a rough growl than John has to strain to understand him. “But I suppose you’re too good for me now. Dutch’s little prize pony, an’ hardly no effort involved.”

“That ain’t fair, Arthur,” John hisses out. “I—I never said nothing like that, you—”

He’s cut off as Arthur wraps a hand around his neck, squeezing hard enough to stop the air in his throat. Distantly he can hear Arthur chuckle, but it’s drowned out by the rushing roar of blood in his ears. By the mad panic building in his chest like a scream. Other than Dutch, John never lets anyone lay a hand on his neck. Not if he can help it. Arthur knows this. He was there when Dutch cut him down from the tree he’d been hung from as a boy of no more than twelve, shuddering and blue in the face. He was there when Hosea gave him the little red scarf to cover up the raw ring of flesh around his neck, the scarf that John wears like an emblem of safety and refuses to go anywhere without. His fingers are slipping underneath it now, pressing into the scar left by the noose with a careless cruelty John has only ever seen directed at other people. He must be able to see the feral terror in John’s eyes, and yet he just squeezes tighter. “And why’s it they coddle you so?” Arthur’s voice sounds distant, as if he’s underwater. “What makes you so damn special?” His slitted eyes bore right John’s wide rolling ones, as if he might be able to find the answer he’s looking for there.

He loosens his grip, just slightly. John gags on the sudden rush of air. He draws ragged breath after ragged breath, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. 

John was on the verge of an extreme panic attack as he stared up pleadingly at the man he saw as an older brother. Did he not see how utterly mortified he was? Did he not care that he was hurting John? Sure they fought and barely ever said two kind words to each other, but that’s what brothers do. Arthur had never hurt John like this, had never intentionally caused him this much pain and fear. “A-Arthur, please! L-Let me go, please! I-I’m sorry j-just- Please let me go… ” he choked out, his voice coming out as a broken sob rather than the strong tone he’d meant. Arthur paused and stared at John who now had tears pouring down his cheeks. It wasn’t often John cried or begged. He cried when he first got to camp, he cried when he’d had a particularly horrible nightmare, he cried when Arthur got real hurt on a heist and John thought he wasn’t going to make it, but he never cried when faced with a threat. But now he was because said threat was one of the only people he trusted and he was shattering that trust right in front of him.

Arthur glances down at his hand, a look of confusion passing over his face, as if he didn’t really understand why he had his hand wrapped around John’s throat. John doesn’t realize it, but he’s trembling like a leaf. He only notices when Arthur backs away suddenly and his shaking legs give out and he finds himself suddenly on the ground.

Immediately, he scrambles backwards and away from Arthur as fast as he can. Arthur holds his hand out and takes a step forwards “John, I-” He sounds almost apologetic, but his words are still slurred and John can’t help but flinch violently away from the outstretched hand that, only moments ago, had been wrapped around his neck, choking him. He couldn’t help the brief images of a noose flashing before his eyes. It wasn’t known all too well in camp, but John suffered severely from PTSD. It’s wh he was so afraid of water, why he didn’t let anyone touch his neck, why he wouldn’t sleep some nights and why he wasn't a fan of being touched in general, too many painful beatings and unwanted touches scarred his mind. Arthur pauses once again and retracts his hand before backing away. His face was unreadable and his eyes seemed a little less glossed over than before, or maybe that was just John’s imagination.

John’s breathing increased as he tried to desperately tried to get more air. His chest felt tight and he felt like he was going to pass out, but he didn’t dare take his eyes away from Arthur. The older man stared at John with mixed emotions, the man being confusion before a look of realization washed over him and he opened his mouth before closing it again, trying to form a coherant sentence before settling on saying nothing and backing away and leaving. 

John tried to calm his racing mind but it wasn’t happening. He could feel himself slipping into a panic attack. Usually he’d go to Arthur to help him through them, but he didn’t know who to go to now that Arthur had been the one to trigger this attack. He found himself wrapping his arms around his legs which he’d drawn up to his chest as he began to rock back and forth, closing his eyes as he struggled to breathe. It wasn’t long before loud, broken sobs tore through his lips. Tears, sweat and snot running down his face as he buried his face into his knees.

At some point, John had passed out, either from exhaustion or asphyxiation. He couldn’t tell. When he woke up, he was still on the ground outside of camp. He stood up slowly, stumbling slightly as dehydration and  burning headache sent a wave of nausea and dizziness through John’s body and he found himself leaning against a tree for support as he threw up what little he’d had to eat. Once he finished, spitting out the bile that remained in his mouth, he started his stumble towards camp, praying he didn’t run into Arthur and could make it to his tent without anyone trying to talk to him. Arthur’s actions last night had his mind racing. If Arthur would do that to him, who’s to say anyone else in camp wouldn’t do the same? He just wanted to be alone and sleep on his bed roll so he could think things through and he needed a goddamn drink.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! This is actually my first rdr2 fanfic so I hope that whoever reads this likes it! Thank you Deadeyeboy for writing such an amazing story which lead me to wanting to write this! Pleaze let me know what you think!
> 
> Ps-- those of you who read my other stories, current unfinished stories are on hiatus until my muse for those fandoms return!


End file.
